Chapter Sixteen - Unlikely Help #2
It looked to her like he wanted to say more.
Instead he held out his hand. Surprised, she reached out to take it.
She thought he was about to snatch the hand back, his eyebrows raising as an expression akin to fear crossed his face.
But his fingers wrapped around her hand.
She felt the thrum of his magic just under the leather glove.
It was cool against her skin, a welcome relief after the heat of Lavinia’s room.
She wanted to lift that hand to her forehead.
No. Her chest. She wanted to feel the cool leather against her skin.
He cleared his throat, “my papers?”
A flush rose to her cheeks as embarrassment washed over her. She dropped his hand and thrust out the papers, “right, yes, of course.”
She had just seen a woman burn to death. A witch. She should not be thinking about the way it would feel to have the hand of the man she despised pressed against her chest.
Despise is a strong word, said the same little treacherous voice from before.
She let out a laugh that verged on the hysterical.
What was wrong with her? It had been too much.
It had all been too much. Lavinia’s court, Emrys, Marianne, the burning.
Even the conversation with Lord Darnwell.
And now unbidden thoughts about the man she hated, and the way it made her feel.
That tingling sensation that travelled downwards.
Don’t forget the jealousy.
“We should go home,” she said suddenly and turned towards the coach.
As the carriage moved off, Rosamund began to come undone.
Without Marianne to look after, without anyone to keep a mask on for, she finally let the panic bubble up.
She was aware that Dorian was there, knew that she should wait until she was back at the hall.
But as soon as the carriage door had shut and they were bathed in green light and darkness, she let the tears fall.
She clawed at the choker around her neck, ripping it off and throwing it on the carriage floor.
Dorian looked up from his paper with a frown.
She did not care. She did not care if he saw.
It felt like she was suffocating. The two of them had not travelled in the carriage since the betrothal ceremony.
They had barely breathed the same air since then.
Now she felt like she could not breathe at all.
Damn him, she thought as she pulled at the waistband of her skirts, I don’t care. Let him see.
As she ripped at the skirts, pulling the cloying material down to reveal the bottom of her black shift dress, he looked at her with wide eyes and said in a tight voice, “what are you doing?”
“I can’t breathe,” she rasped, “I…I can’t breathe.”
Her chest constricted as her breath came out in loud pants.
The panic coursed through her as images of the burning woman swam back into her mind with full force.
The scent of burning flesh filling her nostrils, the heat from the fire on her skin, the shrieks and cackles from Lavinia and her guests.
Only this time, it was not the woman on the pyre.
It was her. She was burning. She felt like she was burning.
She felt like she was going to die.
In one easy movement he had thrown his papers to the side and leaned forward.
“Turn around,” he commanded.
She couldn’t move; the panic held her in a vice.
He must have seen this as he reached forward and turned her around so that her back was to him.
His large hands firmly grasping her, she felt that cool feeling through the thin fabric of her sleeves.
There was not much room to stand up in the carriage, and as the wheels rolled over a cobblestone, she felt her knees buckling.
Dorian gently lowered her to the floor of the carriage.
Suddenly, there was a ripping sound, and she felt the cords of her corseted bodice falling loose.
The thick velvet bodice fell to her waist. Free of it, she clawed at it with her hands, pulling the straps off her arms, and throwing it to the side.
She tried to take a bigger breath, but her chest was still tight, as if the bodice hadn’t gone at all.
A pair of cool hands lifted her up off the floor and turned her around. He dropped to the floor, kneeling in front of her. He took one of her hands in his whilst the other reached up to lift her gaze to him. She focused on those cold white eyes, the chill of his gloved hand against her hot skin.
“Just, breathe,” he said in a calm low tone.
“I…I can’t,” she rasped, reaching up a hand to clutch at her chest.
“Yes, you can,” he said firmly, “breathe.”
He took a deep breath in, and she tried to mirror it.
It was ragged at first, but he encouraged her to do it again.
And again. And again. Each time it became easier.
Each time she could breathe a little easier.
She did not let go of his gaze. He did not look away.
She didn’t know how long they stayed like that.
Him kneeling before her, counting her breathes.
Eventually it eased, and the rise and fall of her chest returned to normal.
Still he stayed kneeling, one hand holding hers.
“I, I think I’m okay.”
He rose to sit on the opposite bench. She shivered as the panic began to leave her body, suddenly cold, and now dressed only in her shift. She had been about to reach for her skirts, discarded on the floor, when Dorian shrugged off his large black coat and held it out to her.
“Th-thank you,” she stammered as she took it, her teeth chattering.
It was warmer than she expected. Given the natural chill of the man she assumed that it would be just as cold, but as soon as the oversized coat was wrapped around her, the cold began to leave.
She ran her hands over the rich fabric, smooth against her skin.
It was heavy, a gentle weight against her, not suffocating but comforting.
She had been about to lean in to smell the collar of it when she caught him watching her.
She flushed and quickly looked out the window. When she looked back at him, he had done the same, and she thought she saw the same red tinge in his own cheeks
“I’m sorry-” she started to say but he raised a hand, still looking out the window.
“You’ve had a difficult night,” he said firmly, “you have nothing to apologise for.”
“How, how did you know what to do?”
“My mother taught me,” he said quietly, and then lifted his papers to resume his study.
His mother. The dark eyed beauty from the gallery.
She had taught him. Had she done this for him?
Was that how he knew? And why had he chosen to help her?
He had given every indication that he had wanted nothing to do with her.
She was just as much an inconvenience to him as he was a prison sentence to her.
He had been rude, ignorant and cruel. So why help her now? Who was this man that sat opposite her?
So much did not add up. The things she had heard about him, this Prince of Death who worked his people to their grave and then raised them from it to continue the work. His magic was only there to destroy, to ruin, to decay. He had been cold to her since the day they met. And yet…
Mrs Hawthorn loved him. They all did. Sir Wulf, his friend; he had been almost a different person around him. Then tonight, with Marianne. And then her.
His ‘Mercy’ with Todric.
Who are you?
She needed to know. She had to know who he really was. And she knew where the answers lay.
The Veil.
She would find a way over the wall, and into the Veil.